Open When…
The future seems so scary.
I close my eyes and think of all the things I want to do, the version of me I want to be. When I pause to let my soul catch up, it’s fear and anxiety that get me.
It seems as though I have too much and not enough time to be extraordinary.
I meant for my first blog to be inspiring, to speak some knowledge and wisdom for those who seek it. I can’t. So I decided to be honest.
In my darkest hours, I never truly look for inspiration. In all honesty, I somehow hated encouraging words when I’ve yet again fallen off the ropes and landed down what feels like rock bottom.
On those days, I hope for peace. I hope for clarity, for someone to sit with me, not to fix me, but to say:
“yes. I feel that too.”
Life happens so fast. I sometimes forget I’m in the middle of everything I used to only wish for.
For every book I publish, I wish for more. There was a time when I would sit in my little room with this quiet desperation to be brave enough to share my art. Now that I have, I sit in my little corner with this burning desperation to connect with a stranger, enough for them to share my words to another, then another. The desperation changes, but it grows heavy. Like Sisyphus, I carry the boulder up the mountain of my own expectations, and damn myself to burnout. Every time.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
I can’t remember a time when I was proud—only for a split second, perhaps. The second after publishing my first book, I remember starting the rewrite for my next book. When I published my second, I jumped right into completing and editing my third.
I keep chasing the future while writing about the past, and I have never truly stopped to see the present until I am exhausted.
And when I am, it seems impossible to pick back up where I paused, to the point where I decide to simply start over.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Burnout, as bad as the name sounds, does remind me to take a break. I drop everything I am working on and pause to recharge. I pause to rebalance. To regain momentum, and be excited once again with the possibility of starting a project.
But why is it that my art is more understanding than my mental health?
Why is it more acceptable for me to scrap my progress, and be more willing to restart the process, than take things a little slower to make sure I never let go of the rope?
When I have the answer, I’ll write more.
For now, I hope you find comfort in my words.
Our feelings sometimes feel so big, we forget struggles are much too often universal.
That no matter the pattern, the cloth bears the same threading. Different stitches in the same cut.
